Chapter Text
“Well, well, well,” Zam called out, tilting his head as he peered down from his throne. “If it isn’t my darling Wemmbu.”
The player in purple remained silent.
“I’ve been told,” the emperor continued, “that you’ve been wasting time? Looking at glowberries instead of gold?”
Wemmbu lifted his head to stare Zam in the eyes. “Why does it matter to you so much?”
“Because you’re meant to listen to everything I say, remember?” Zam said, still smiling. “And you’ve disobeyed me, Wemmbu. You deserve a punishment for that, don’t you think?”
“I don’t care anymore, bro.” Wemmbu growled, though his heart drummed in his chest. “What are you gonna make me do this time? Get a hundred totems? A thousand tridents? I’m sick and tired of all this. It’s all so stupid.”
“Oh, of course you’d say that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? It is stupid! You’re stupid and your empire’s stupid and these shackles you think are gonna make me follow you are stupid!”
Zam chuckled. “You really do deserve punishment.”
“I already told you, I don’t care! Nothing you make me do matters anymore, bro. Go ahead. Hit me with the worst ‘task’ you’ve got. If you think you can make me do—”
“I never said I would make you do something, Wemmbu dear.”
Wemmbu paused. “What?”
“Come on, follow me.”
Zam then hopped off his polished throne and strode down the carpeted hall. In silence, Wemmbu commanded his feet to remain in their place—to challenge the ruler for one—but they planted themselves one after the other along each of Zam’s resolute steps.
“Where are you taking me?”
“I thought you didn’t care?”
Wemmbu’s gaze dropped to the floor. He glared at the iron glint of his shackles.
A pair of muffled footfalls echoed along the brown-carpeted floor; one of gold-trimmed netherite and the other of plain boots—all of Wemmbu’s iron armor had broken at the mines. He watched the way Zam treaded along the corridor, the way the blazing torches seemed to tilt toward him and light up his golden silhouette. Wemmbu could barely keep up on his sore legs and quaking knees.
Zam didn’t speak as they traversed the room. He didn’t glance back once.
They walked past the mossy cobblestone walls, past the deceitful little sign that read “Under Construction” and down the birch steps leading into the dark hallway. Zam pushed the small buttons on the wall, and mechanical noises filled Wemmbu’s ears as the door to the treasury opened.
The last time they’d been there, Wemmbu and Zam had worked together; attempting to capture Parrot and Wifies.
“Alright,” said Zam, finally spinning around once they’d made it onto spruce planks below. “Here we are. Say hi.” He gestured around.
A single guard stared at Wemmbu from the other end of the round wooden table—Pangi. Always Pangi; the guard that stood by Zam’s side. Wemmbu had never personally fought the guy, but at that moment, covered head-to-toe in netherite and with a shiny sword in hand, he outmatched him in gear. Maybe strength and agility too.
Still, Wemmbu rolled his eyes as he deadpanned, “Oh, Pangi’s gonna attack me! I’m so scared! Please have mercy on me, great chungus.”
Pangi’s brows furrowed behind his sunglasses, and he frowned at Wemmbu’s words. He fiddled with the hilt of his weapon as he said, “I’m not—”
“Did you bring what I asked?” Zam called, dismissing Pangi’s sentence.
“Oh, um, yes. Yes, my king.”
Pangi then placed a yellow shulker box on the ground, and Zam looked through it—grabbing a few items. Wemmbu couldn’t see them.
“Perfect,” Zam’s grin grew wider as he looked back at Wemmbu. “I have so much planned for you, Wemmbu.”
He then obtained Pangi’s sword. Did Zam not carry one himself?
Turning back to Wemmbu, Zam smiled; idly swinging the weapon in his hand.
Maybe they’d do pvp. It would be rather unfair given Wemmbu’s being chained and the fact that he hadn’t brushed up on his—albeit minimal—skills in weeks. It would make sense for Zam to want a fight.
However, instead, Wemmbu found himself gasping as the blade plunged into his shoulder, biting back a scream. His wide eyes glanced at the wound, before redirecting his gaze from the sight—the netherite remained lodged at his joint; blood, warm and shimmering red, seeped into his clothes and dripped onto the floor.
The torchlight flickered. Or maybe his vision did. Zam’s wicked smile blurred in and out of focus, and he could hear the echo of the emperor’s giggles as he pulled out the sword.
Then, just moments later, the sound of glass shattered over Wemmbu’s skin. The pain vanished. His eyesight cleared in time for him to watch the wound seal itself shut and smoothen itself out; until no evidence of a struggle remained but the unsuspecting tear in the fabric of his shirt, and the blood.
Various other injuries, the small cuts and scrapes, also disappeared with no trace. The quiet yet sickening noises of the bones grinding together in his broken wrist shuddered through Wemmbu’s ears, but the scar where he’d ripped the skin remained.
The effects lasted a few seconds. His pulse remained high.
He glanced up at Zam, catching the pinkish glint of a bottle in his hand—regen.
“Why—” Wemmbu started, but Zam cut him off with another swing of the sword.
This time, it struck his gut. A fiery shot of agony. Wemmbu heaved and coughed and saw and tasted blood.
Almost immediately, another splash. Everything healed. He tried not to stumble against the wall.
He blinked at Zam.
Wemmbu let out a trembling breath, before another strike pierced through him. Again, the regeneration potion did its work—fixing and mending everything physically wrong with him, leaving only the fresh memory of the pain and the slightest discolor on his purple skin.
The emperor raised the netherite blade once more, and Wemmbu flinched. The sword remained in the air as Zam laughed.
“You’re learning! That’s more than I’d have expected at this point.”
Wemmbu let out a dry chuckle, even though his heart hammered. Getting under Zam’s skin might possibly be the only thing he could still do.
He put on his best mocking voice, “Wow! I’m so happy to hear that! Do I get a sticker for all my hard wo— GHHK—”
The sword punctured his lung. A gush of boiling hot blood choked out through his sentence. A glass bottle broke once more, and the pain stopped.
Preventing Wemmbu from uttering another word, Zam only grinned as he continued the process; stab, splash, heal, repeat.
Though he let out the occasional grunt, Wemmbu didn’t scream. Not when his tired knees hit the solid ground, not when Zam’s almost-triumphant voice commanded him to get back up, not when the sword dug into his skull, or his ankles, or his ribs.
A few dozen—or hundred or thousand—cycles later, Zam paused before using the regen. Wemmbu braced himself; a part of him anticipating the potion and the other secretly begging for it to delay, for him to finally be given the time to process the injury on his upper arm.
Wemmbu heard the bottle smash against the ground—but when he glanced back, the gaping wound remained very intact.
He looked at Zam, who smiled. Shards of glass, alongside the pink remains of the potion, lay scattered on the floor.
“Whoops,” Zam said, as if he’d just spilled a drink at a children’s tea party, “that was the last one. What a shame.” He grabbed Wemmbu’s chin, leveled their eyes. “I figure your head’s a bit clearer now? That you’ll be more obedient, Wemmbu?”
Glaring, and still more than a little dizzy, Wemmbu smirked. “Sure. Absolutely. I’ll be the most obedient little puppet you’ve ever seen. I’ll even put on a colorful hat and dance in the royal courtyard—anything for you, Zammy Zam-Zam.”
Zam paused, brows knitting together and grin faltering, then he let out a small giggle.
“I thought you’d say something like that,” he claimed, shrugging. “You’re so annoyingly stubborn. You do remember the book, right? The spell? You can’t defy anything I say. You might as well, you know, accept that already.”
“You sound so desperate, bro,” Wemmbu said, straining to keep the tremor out of his voice. His arm throbbed; and he clung to the sensation of the pain as he continued, “If the darn spell is so powerful, then why did you feel the need to stab me a million times to try and get me to ‘listen’?”
Zam looked away, briefly, before chuckling. “You just keep on blabbering, huh?” he said, crossing his arms. “I guess the punishment wasn’t enough.” He glanced over at Pangi, who’d remained standing at his position the whole time; somewhere to Wemmbu’s left. “Go call the others, Pangi. It’s time.”
In the brief pause that followed, Wemmbu took the opportunity to ask—once again—this time his voice quieter, "Why are you doing this? Is it that you couldn't stand the thought of one person disobeying you?" He made eye contact with PrinceZam, the latter's expression silent and unreadable; he almost looked tired. "Or are you, like, scared of me specifically—"
His words were cut off by a declaration from Pangi, "Here they are, your highness."
The floorboards creaked as Wemmbu watched the guards march into the room in sync—all familiar faces. He spotted Sorhin and Luigitoan and Loppezz and Spongz. Manepear stood next to Flamefrags.
“Alright, Manepear. Hold him down.”
Before Wemmbu could hear the words properly, a hand clasped around his shoulder.
"Bro—" He tried turning his head, but another hand held it in place. "Bro, what are you doing? Let me go."
Manepear said nothing. Wemmbu watched Flamefrags present Zam with another shulker; this time bright red.
A smile returned to Zam’s face. "Thank you," he said, then opened it.
Wemmbu strained to see what he pulled out, but Manepear’s claws dug into his skull. He suppressed a shriek at the pain, unable to move out of his firm grasp.
He tried to imagine what Zam had prepared. Another round of regen? Something worse?
His heartbeat picked up at the glint of something golden. He still couldn't look at the item, but only so many things could glitter like that.
Maybe a golden tool? To strike him with instead of netherite? Why would Zam do that though? Because it could break so easily? Perhaps he'd use a blunt one—a shovel?
Or a totem? So that he could be brought back from death? Similarly to the regeneration potions, but he'd be tortured to actual death only to return immediately with rapidly replenishing health?
He tried not to shudder at his own speculations, but just then Zam turned—the look on his face mocking Wemmbu's racing mind—and the object in his gloved hands didn't look anything like a totem. In fact, Wemmbu had never seen anything like it.
It consisted of a handle, about a foot long, with a flat head at the top in the shape of what that looked like the PrinceZam Empire's crest; the three-tipped crown all the guards wore on their shields. The whole thing glimmered in a pristine shade of gold—which explained the shiny glimpse Wemmbu had caught.
"What the heck is that?" he blurted, watching how the torchlight glistered on its surface as Zam twirled it between his fingers.
Zam chuckled in reply. "Don't worry, Wemmbu. You'll see in just a bit."
The emperor then ordered Flamefrags to ignite a flint and steel, and Wemmbu watched him place the tip of the rod thing in the fire. Slowly, it started to glow; the heat rendering the little crown bright red.
PrinceZam smirked as he lifted it from the flames and held it out toward Wemmbu.
Wemmbu blinked, then his eyes widened.
“No. Zam—” A wave of nausea hit him in the gut, and he swallowed hard. “You’re not— you’re not seriously gonna—”
Zam stepped forward. “There’s no other way to really convince you of the power I have over you, Wemmbu. You’re my servant, my slave, and you will obey me. I have to make sure you remember that.”
“I’m not yours! I never will be! You’re—”
“Stop talking,” Zam commanded, cutting Wemmbu off. “You’re just proving my point. You asked for this.”
Wemmbu tried to speak, to cry, to scream at Zam, but his lips remained glued together.
The emperor then walked toward him, each footfall taking an eternity long. Zam pulled back Wemmbu’s hair, a gentle grace in his fingers despite the menacing smirk on his face, and the latter could do nothing to prevent him.
Wemmbu held his breath, resisting the urge to shut his eyes—he wouldn’t give Zam the satisfaction—even as the growing heat of the glowing emblem inched closer and closer, almost in slow motion.
It made contact. Burning, searing hot against the side of his neck.
A scream rose in his throat, but he still couldn’t open his mouth. He bit his cheek instead; the iron-like taste of blood coating his tongue and darkness coating his eyelids as the fiery crown pressed harder.
The dizzying, acrid stench of burnt skin filled the air, lingering even after the brand was removed, even after Zam had stepped back with a grin and tossed the piece of metal back into the shulker.
“So,” Zam said, “do you understand now? Do you see what I can do to you?”
“Screw you,” Wemmbu spat; voice shaking with fury and pain.
Zam blinked. “Wow.”
“You’re a stupid, selfish—”
“You asked for it, then.” Zam sighed. He then shook his head and, before Wemmbu could say anything more, he said, “Come with me.”
Wemmbu’s numb legs followed PrinceZam’s footsteps, the guards marching behind, and halted in front of a small obsidian box; a 3×3 cube of the purple-black material.
Zam ordered Flamefrags to break an entrance into it and he immediately did as told. Despite his headache, Wemmbu wondered if the guards had a similar ‘predicament’ to his own—the strange curse of Zam’s control. He couldn’t see them bearing any chains like the ever-present shackles weighing down around his wrists though. They might have other hidden restraints invisible to the eye.
Or they might not need any.
“Now, Wemmbu, since you’ve been so… rebellious lately,” Zam said, “I think you need some time to think about your actions. I think a few days in this little box would help, right?”
Wemmbu’s eyes widened and he spluttered, “You’re not seriously gonna—"
“Step in.” Zam ordered, and Wemmbu watched his own traitorous legs drag him into the obsidian cage. “Very good. Now, I want you to stand completely still until I say otherwise. No eating, no sleeping. Just think about what you’ve done.”
“Zam,” Wemmbu said, even as his limbs locked into place. “I’m gonna get out. I swear I’ll find some way to set myself free.”
Wemmbu heard a giggle as Zam placed obsidian in front of him, covering the box, closing him in. “Defying me isn’t going to get you anywhere, my sweet sweet Wemmbu.”
“Keep yapping, Zam.” Wemmbu whispered. “Keep yapping.”
“This is just absurd.” Wemmbu mumbled. “It’s been what— a few minutes? An hour? How long is that tyrant planning to keep me in here?”
Silence met Wemmbu’s words. He continued, “Whatever. It doesn’t matter how long I’m here. I’ll get out. I will get out.”
He blinked into the darkness, clenching his fists.
“As soon as I get these dang shackles off, I will get out! You hear me, Zam?”
If Zam did, he gave no reply.
“I’ll get out and I’ll use this ridiculous iron chain to strangle you!”
He tried moving. Nothing happened.
He closed his eyes. It made no difference.
He counted 10 breaths.
“Why?” Wemmbu said, voice growing louder. “Why? Why, Zam? Why are you doing this? Why are you controlling me like this? Is it funny? Interesting? A sick, twisted joke? Are you having fun?”
“I wasn’t ever going to betray you, you know. I never planned to.”
He blinked. Once. Twice. Ten times. A hundred times. He lost count.
“Okay,” Wemmbu said. “It’s been a few hours. Maybe— maybe a day. Right? I think that’s long enough. You can— you can let me out now, Zam.”
“Zam? Are you— you’re— you’re not there, are you?”
“What did— what did you tell me to do again? Think. Right, think. Yeah. You told me to think. Well, I’m— I’m thinking, Zam. I’m thinking. I’m thinking that it’s been long enough. You should let me go now.”
His head pounded, his fingers shook. His heels ached in his firmly planted boots.
The cheek he’d bitten stopped stinging. The sear of the emblem dulled at his neck. The blood turned cold against his arm.
“What are you waiting for, Zam? Do you— do you want me to do something? Do you want me to beg? Do you want me to scream?”
He struggled to steady his breathing. He tasted bile on his tongue. He savored the bitter taste.
“Do you want me to scream, Zam?”
Wemmbu screamed.
He screamed until his ears rang, till the sound of his own voice sounded alien to himself.
He screamed until the shackles around his wrists rattled from the vibrations that trembled through his body.
He screamed until something in his throat cracked and the only noise he could make was that of broken coughs.
“Zam,” he muttered, hoarse. “I— I screamed. I can’t… scream anymore. Will you— will you let me out now?”
His breaths shuddered.
“Please?”
He stared into the darkness. He tried and failed to count the number of times he breathed in. Tried and failed to count the number of times he blinked. Tried and failed to count the number of times his heart beat.
“Zam,” he called, “Please, if— if you’re there. If you can— if you can hear me. Please. It’s been— I don’t… I don’t know— I don’t know how long it’s been. Please, let me go. Let— please— let me out, please.”
He fought to keep his eyes open. His eyes wouldn’t close.
“I’m sorry. I’ll— I’ll do what… what you say. Anything you say. I’m sorry.”
He shut his eyes. He took in short bursts of air through his mouth.
“You’re not gonna… let me out. Are you.”
He opened his eyes. It made no difference.
“Okay.”
He startled at the sound of blocks breaking. Moments later, a blinding light filled his box—burning his retinas—and by the time his eyes readjusted to the glowstone light, he could see nothing but PrinceZam in front of him.
“Alright,” Zam said through his signature wicked smirk. “You can move now.”
Wemmbu didn’t make a noise, didn’t attempt to take a step forward—he only collapsed.
Zam caught him in his arms. “Oh, dear.” He giggled, lifting the shackled player back to a standing position. Wemmbu assumed he imagined how Zam’s smile fell, ever so slightly, once their eyes met, before rising once more. “We can’t have you dying, now, can we?”
Wemmbu blinked, eyes half lidded, as Zam threaded his fingers through his purple hair. He then sat down, in front of the obsidian cage, and cradled Wemmbu’s head on his lap.
Zam shuffled through his inventory. The ruler pulled out an apple; golden and glittering, just like the crown that glinted on his head.
“Eat this,” Zam commanded, voice gentle, raising the gapple to Wemmbu’s lips.
Wemmbu obliged, taking a slow bite. Maybe it’d heal him, maybe it’d poison him; you could never tell when it came to Zam.
The emperor continued to run his warm fingers through Wemmbu’s scalp as he finished the apple.
“Feeling better, Wemmbu darling?” Zam whispered, honey-sweet. “See? I’m so kind to you, even after all you’ve done to disobey me.”
Wemmbu shut his eyes.
Zam patted his head. “You must be so grateful. Thank me, Wemmbu.”
“Thank you.”
The emperor stiffened, before chuckling and continuing, “Is that all you have to say? A plain ‘thank you’?”
Wemmbu let out a shaky breath. The words came out hollow, empty. “Thank you, my King.”
Moments passed in silence, before Wemmbu attempted to reopen his eyes. He could see nothing but a blur of yellow above him, harder to distinguish each time he blinked.
“Are you tired, Wemmbu?” he heard a voice say, distant and muffled.
Wemmbu opened his mouth, but nothing came out but a shivering breath.
A small giggle. “Alright, then. You can sleep.”
PrinceZam said something else after, but it faded into the darkness behind Wemmbu’s eyelids.